


Darling, You Look Wonderful Tonight

by Cannebady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Happy 30th GO, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Romance, Slow Dancing, Suit Porn, The demon Crowley finally gets loved, This is the softest thing I think I've ever written, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), a rather lot of blushing, and the angel aziraphale has been loved for some time, just love, lots and lots of love, shockingly no angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: In which the world's worst communicators finally get it together long enough to get really, properly loved.A look into the first several weeks after the Apocalypse and a burgeoning romance 6,000 years in the making.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 320
Collections: Hot Omens, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Darling, You Look Wonderful Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely readers!
> 
> Usual apologies for tense issues and lack of editing.
> 
> Also, should you find yourself reading the word "alart" in this work (spoiler alert (!) you will, it's in here. I know because I wrote it), it's not an error. Just a little nod to a very good friend who did a read through for me. Alsoalso, I find it far more accurate than "alert" for some reason. I feel like there's a difference between the two that I may not be sophisticated enough to delineate. Feel free to participate in any alart/alert discourse in the comments. Or among yourselves; I'm really not picky (or able to track it).
> 
> That being said, the purpose for this is that the world is a huge mess, so have a fluffy, romantic date with a side of suit porn that leads, quite effectively, to good ol' smut.
> 
> As a [second] personal note that no one at all will care about but I'm including because I'm a huge, unrepentant sap for it (and when he reads it he'll get adorably blush-y and stammer-y and I am HERE for it, also when you write things you get to be self-indulgent I suppose) Aziraphale's suit in this is modeled after how my husband looked when he proposed to me (I'm very lucky).
> 
> Enjoy and be kind!

When you’ve been party to the goings-on of Earth for nigh on 6,000 years, there are few things that can render you surprised.

When you’ve shared space with the same being (or adversary, or hereditary enemy, or soulmate, or whatever you want to call it) for that same period of time, logic dictates that you’d infrequently be surprised by their goings-on either.

But as it happens, there are still some tricks stored in those soft worn beige sleeves, and instead of mediocre parlor tricks as is tradition (much to a certain demon’s continued dismay), this surprise is landing rather well, all things considered (depending on who you ask).

If you deem it necessary to ask the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, part-time bastard, and full-time book hoarder, he’d say it’s really going so much better than he could’ve imagined. And _oh,_ has he _imagined_.

If you end up asking Anthony J. Crowley, former demon of Hell, part-time serpent, Original Tempter of Humanity, and current walking anxiety attack in sunglasses he’d, well, he’d really say rather little as he’s been struck upside the libido with something akin to a sledgehammer. _And he is having a bloody fit._

\---

It’s been roughly six weeks since the Apocalypse, rather than ending the world as it saw fit, Apoca _lapsed_ and left one angel and one demon unexpectedly alive and quite happily unemployed.

Here’s the thing about work, especially when it’s celestially assigned work provided to immortal beings of quite infinite power; it has a way of consuming your life whether you’ve consented to it or not. It also has a nasty habit initiating quite the ripple effect when it evaporates without so much as a by-your-leave, rendering those once encumbered by expectations and assignments scrambling to regain their footing in a new world. One that includes free will and facing pesky things like _feelings_ that have been beaten down into submission for the entire lifespan of the Earth.

What that ends up meaning for Aziraphale and Crowley, is that for the first time in their very long lives, they have the opportunity to be honest with one another; the ability to live their lives the way they see fit, no longer beholden to a higher power and accountable only to themselves and each other. What this also means is that is Earth’s two worst communicators have to figure out how to go from Aziraphale and Crowley, resident angel and demon respectively - hereditary enemies, to AziraphaleandCrowley, celestial entities who have been pining for one another long enough to support an entire fucking forest. Entities that, for the first time can actually _do something_ about it.

Therein lies the challenge, though, if you’ve spent 6,000 in a state of extreme emotional constipation. How exactly do you get across to the being that makes your world keep turning that they’re it for you? That you’d walk through fire (or holy water) to make sure they’re safe and happy and comfortable? That you’re so heart-stoppingly in love that you don’t know how to keep it in anymore?

Well, it goes a bit like this.

\---

After they had lunch at the Ritz following one-matinee-only, award-winning performances in Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale did something he’s never done before and reached out for Crowley’s hand while they walked home. Crowley, for his part, managed not to discorporate on the spot (which he steadfastly believes he should’ve received a commendation for), but failed to bring attention to it, left completely bereft by the gesture.

It's not that they'd never touched throughout their lengthy acquaintanceship, it's just that this was _purposeful_ and initiated by Aziraphale; two factors which succeeded in making Crowley's head spin and cocoons of butterflies unfurl and begin to flutter in his chest. He could feel how soft and strong those fingers were laced between his, could perhaps venture to run his thumb along the outside of the angel's. When he finally worked up the courage, he received a pleasant hum in return. If you had wanted to get the smile off of his face that day, you would've had to do so by force.

While extremely pleased and very interested in the proceedings, Crowley had been told before, in no uncertain terms, that he goes quite to fast for his angelic counterpart, so doing something so bold as saying, “Hey angel, do you want more of this? Because me? I want as much as you can give me”, was completely out of the question. So he sought to soak up the attention and good will of his angel and wait him out. This was fine. He could live with this. It was more than he ever expected to have and surely more than he deserved.

Aziraphale, however, was experiencing things a bit differently. Reaching out and initiating contact was supposed to spur Crowley into action; action was Crowley’s forte. His brash, suave, lovely demon. He'd been, rather correctly, under the impression that they were moving at a slower pace based on his own repeated rebuffing of Crowley's overtures and his general reticence towards change, but Crowley, while clearly happy over the new normal (his smiling had _not_ gone unnoticed), hadn't brought it up at all. This had left Aziraphale on uneven ground because, honestly, how much more obvious could he be?

Alas, other than stroking his thumb so sweetly over Aziraphale's and clearly delighting in the small intimacy, he hadn't indicated a desire to move it any further. Aziraphale was initially confused and frustrated. How is it that he was enamored with the one demon who had gotten _tossed out of Heaven_ simply for asking questions, but simply refused to ask the big, shiny, elephant-in-the-room of a question _now_?

In his head, when he'd thought about grabbing Crowley's hand, he'd imagined that Crowley would've waited until they were in one of their respective homes to ask something to the effect of, "What exactly in the _Heaven_ are you playing at, angel?", to which Aziraphale could've responded with something like, "Loving you out loud, dearest" (or something equally soppy that Crowley would outwardly grumble about and privately rejoice in), which would've lead to some rather enthusiastic appreciation if he did say so himself.

But, as miscommunications are wont to do, Crowley said nothing and Aziraphale said nothing as neither wanted to break the spell that had come over them in the new world. The handholding _was_ so very nice as it was; their own small way of staying closely connected.

Around week two of intermittent handholding (and definitely not doing anything so helpful as talking about _why_ or expressing what else they may want) Crowley made the mistake of getting righteously drunk at the bookshop and passing out on Aziraphale’s sofa. This wasn’t, in and of itself, a rare occurrence. Of course, they’d been imbibing in insurmountable quantities of alcohol and passing out in shared spaces for quite a few millennia. What made it noteworthy was that Crowley had, well, somehow fallen asleep _on_ Aziraphale, who had been reading casually on said sofa while his resident demon had waxed poetic about how his work in creating something called “planned obsolescence" was peak demonic craftmanship and wildly unrecognized in his former circles.

Aziraphale had seen Crowley sleep many times throughout their storied acquaintanceship, but never this close. He’d never felt Crowley’s warm exhalations against his own corporation, never experienced how Crowley would physically curl around him, _and into him_ , given the chance; hadn’t watched the lines in his face smooth in sleep making him look younger and untroubled. If he hadn’t already been in love, this would’ve been the final nail in his coffin. As it was, he stared down at the demon with infinite fondness and covered him with a old, knitted tartan blanket Crowley would’ve called a crime against blankets if given the opportunity.

While admittedly uncomfortable with change and unsure how to move things thing between them along, Aziraphale was an opportunist and understood the gravity of Crowley allowing this level of vulnerability. While he may never have had the pleasure of Crowley’s lovely form asleep against him before, he knew with a fierce surety that he couldn’t possibly give this intimacy up, so he had to be sure to play the cards right when Crowley woke. If he let the demon run, he feared they may never get back to this place.

As expected, when Crowley woke several hours later it was clear that he was in the early stages of an almighty panic attack once he registered that the very comfortable place he found himself dozing in was actually the angel’s lap, and that the comfortable pillow he’d been mashing his face into was actual the angel’s lovely plush belly.

Correctly identifying the demon’s rough breathing as the precursor to a cut-and-run attempt, Aziraphale had shushed him softly and dragged a hand through those copper strands and encouraged him back to sleep. There was a moment of tense, charged silence where Crowley regarded the angel with one ichor eye, and the angel tried to imbue him with every soft feeling of love and warmth he had. Luckily for them both, Crowley look the gift for what it was and resettled right there in Aziraphale’s lap. The demon, frequently plagued by nightmares (of Falling, of being left alone, of burning bookshops and the cinder of charred books), had never slept better.

\---

Aziraphale had hoped that after the first sleeping incident that things would have picked up some momentum. Regrettably, it seemed that they were both still committed to maintaining the status quo in fear of rocking the proverbial boat.

For the next four weeks, it continued a bit like this; they’d go St. James Park and feed the ducks _while holding hands_ , then they’d have dinner at little restaurants where the owners new Aziraphale’s order by heart _while holding hands_ (and carefully avoiding the warm, knowing looks of other patrons while they goggled besotted at each other through the meal), and _then_ they’d walk home to either the bookshop or Crowley’s flat _while still holding hands_ , and now they’d go so far as to _sleep in the same bed_ , tangled warmly around each other refusing to let go.

And it was _great_. Fucking _fantastic_ , really, if you asked Crowley or Aziraphale privately. The only problem is that, collectively, they were talking about fuck-all and individually fretting about what exactly was happening and whether the other was on the same page. Wondering whether the other also wanted to reach out, to find out the feel of one another’s skin, the shape of lips, the way the other’s voice would sound around the syllables of “ _I love you, I’ve always loved you_ ”.

It was a bit of a shock to Crowley when Aziraphale was the one who broke first (honestly, it was a bit of a surprise to Aziraphale as well). Typically, the angel was the one of them more comfortable with burying his questions and concerns under layers of denial, but perhaps being discorporated and recorporated within the same 24-hour span had knocked a few things loose because, as Crowley found out, he could be _very_ decisive when properly motivated.

\---

Crowley’s phone rang on a Thursday afternoon around 1:00pm. Very few people had his phone number, so he’d smiled to himself being fairly sure that Aziraphale would be on the other end of the line. He was not disappointed.

“Hello, angel,” Crowley had damn near purred (much to the dismay of his inner demon), “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“My dear, so good to hear your voice,” Aziraphale had started, but something was off about his tone. Crowley could hear the undercurrent of nervousness infusing his soft voice.

“Angel are you-” Panic starting to trickle into Crowley's decorative bloodstream and he promptly interrupted, only to be counter-interrupted by a fast-speaking angel.

“I’m fine, my dear, but I need to get this out and I need you to listen because if you start talking, I fear I’ll lose my nerve.” Aziraphale had stated, sounding rushed and breathy.

Crowley’s stomach plummeted low enough that he worried end up on Hell’s radar. What could have the angel in such a state? Was it Heaven? Hell? Had he finally realized that he was punching below his weight with Crowley and looking for some space to reassess his choices?

Crowley heard him take a bracing breath from what felt like light years away and tried to ignore that his own lungs were struggling to continue to function. He needn’t have worried about staying quiet though, as the next words from the angel’s mouth summarily shut him up.

“I want to take you out tomorrow, to dinner and to a show. I already bought tickets.”

There was breathing space and Crowley was more confused than ever. They’d gone for dinner or to a show almost every other night for over a month. Why did Aziraphale need to steel himself to ask Crowley to join him all of a sudden? But the angel's voice still held some pomp and circumstance to it and he knew there was a point there. About to respond with his confusion and mild exasperation at Aziraphale’s dramatics, he was cut off, again, quite abruptly. He would have been a bit miffed was he not aware that Aziraphale likely picked up the habit from him.

“I don’t want this to be what we normally do. I want to take you out with _purpose_ , my dear. I’d like to hold your hand because I adore how your hand feels in mine. I’d like to walk you home after and end the night properly.” Aziraphale exhaled audibly, a tremor just under the surface.

“Angel?” Crowley squeaked out. Well, anyone else would've called it a squeak. Crowley would both vehemently disagree and be found entirely incorrect in his assertions was he presented with evidence. More importantly, however, _wa_ _s this actually happening?_

“Would you be amenable, my dear?” Aziraphale finished, sounding surprisingly resigned; as if Crowley had ever denied him anything, as if he ever would, ever _could_ , honestly.

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley breathed out. “Are you asking me on-”, he realized he was clenching his phone tight enough to cause permanent damage. “Are you asking me on a _date_?” The last word came out too high pitched to be casual and Crowley hated how revealing that ( _squeaking_ ) was.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by the longest pause in all of human history (and Crowley would know, he's lived it), then the angel’s sonorous voice whispering out, “ _Yes_ , I think I rather am.”

The anxiety and fear in Crowley's body quickly replaced itself with radiating warmth and he realized he was smiling like a loon. If demons were given to something so human as blushing, his entire body would be lit up like a a tree on Christmas. “Yes, I’ll go out with you to dinner and a show and whatever comes after. Of course I will.” As Crowley prayed to a God who wasn’t listening that Aziraphale was on the same page as far as _whatever comes after_.

“Oh, jolly good!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I’ve made reservations at a very nice place we haven’t been to. Wear your best.” The angel paused. “I can’t wait.” The last three words nearly whispered into the phone but intoned with so much affection that Crowley nearly crushed his phone all over again.

He rung off before Crowley could respond with anything like _words_ but that was okay. They had a _date_. His body was at war with itself; partially experiencing a wave of anxiety that came with Aziraphale actually taking a chance on him and partially feeling incandescent happiness at maybe, _finally_ getting what he wanted, and an extra helping of anxiety because, “What does he mean, _wear my best_?” He was surprised to find that he'd spoken that bit out loud. His flat, regrettably, offered up nothing so helpful as a response.

\---

Aziraphale had rung him again later that night and told him to be at the bookshop for 7:30pm the next day, so Crowley had the remainder of the day and most of the next to figure things out. Or, more accurately, to fret.

In a way, it felt like a role reversal. For most of their acquaintance, Crowley had been the one to push or ask for more, and had taken the stance of waiting while Aziraphale fretted through his anxiety on the road to eventually caving in. Being on the fretting side was novel.

He spent the rest of the afternoon idly watching TV and obsessing over what Aziraphale’s expectations may be. In 6,000 years on Earth, he hasn’t actually _been_ on a real date. Sure, he’s taken a human out here and there to ease along a temptation. He’s certainly observed humans on dates. But, when he was at his most maudlin, and allowed himself to imagine he and Aziraphale out together, he’d also assumed that he would be firmly in the asking and taking role, and less in the being asked (his mind wouldn’t let him even think of the term “ _being taken”_ in a last ditch effort of self-preservation) position. The novelty made it seem both intangible and very, very real in short succession.

As if finally given permission, his imagination ran through different possibilities for the following day. He allowed himself to imagine what it'd be like to have the angel dote on him, show him off, let his eyes catch on Crowley's when he found him staring (because who was he kidding, he was _always_ looking) and return that furtive glance an allow it to blossom into something new?

Overwhelmed, he didn’t manage to do much preparing and found himself faffing about, taking a long, hot shower and falling asleep relatively early. Who could blame him, of course? It isn’t every day that your soulmate finally shows his hand.

The following morning, Crowley woke up determined to act normal about this. He _would not_ make this weird. To prove how casual he was, he made coffee, but promptly left it on the table in a fit of anxiety. He watered his plants, shouted the requisite abuse to keep them in line, then made more coffee and drank half of the carafe in a go or two before abandoning it again in favor of a second round of shouting.

The plants, however, must have noted a change in their demonic landlord’s disposition, because instead of shivering and shaking with their usual gusto, they were subdued to a minor tremble, and a particularly bold ivy reached out to him, as if to lay a calming hand on his shoulder. No scowl, growl, threat, or sneer could cow the vine and dissuade it from its mission, and the misguided, leaf-based comfort did nothing to soothe Crowley’s frayed nerves, so he gave up the entire session as a bad job and stomped off for good measure. Both he and the unruly ivy left the interaction a bit worse for the wear.

Around 3:00pm, he remembered that Aziraphale often came to Crowley’s flat now and there was a chance he may want to retire here tonight (after their _date_ ), to, well, to do whatever it was that they _did_ after a date. Not that he'd _know_. Because this was their _first_ _formal_ _one_ (no pressure). A thought that he couldn't quite keep from invading his other, much more productive thoughts.

An aura of mild panic surrounded him and, before he knew it, a demonic whirlwind he may or may not have shared a corporation with was tidying his flat, forgetting for the time being that Aziraphale knew what the place looked like and was familiar with Crowley’s penchant for leaving empty wine bottles scattered around, his spartan decorating style, and his throne ownership status.

After completing the sitting room, his study, and the kitchen (which was largely decorative to begin with; when _did_ he acquire all of those appliances?), he made it to the bedroom and panicked anew. He shouldn't be panicking. Azirphale _had been here before_. They’d quite literally slept here, tangled together (albeit platonically), before so he knew that Aziraphale knew that he rarely made his bed, preferring the comfort of a lived-in space and miracle-clean sheets. But, should the angel choose to spend the evening, would he want something different to mark the occasion? In all, he stared at the bed for roughly 40 minutes with the equivalent of " **ALART ALART ALART** " running through his head and nothing more.

He made the bed. It's special, right? This possible first night being _together_ rather than just together. And he wasn’t going to deny the several fantasies he’d had over the years about turning down a bed to lie the angel down in, thinking how lovely he'd look in contrast with Crowley's soft black sheets.

However, doing so was horribly revealing, wasn’t it? Not to mention presumptuous. He wasn't about to start doing something so frivolous as _going too fast_.

He unmade the bed, then, regretting the decision almost instantly, made it again. Christ he was a _disaster_ already.

He couldn’t decide if it was more embarrassing to have it unmade for such a momentous occasion (perhaps interpreted to mean that he didn't note this as important?), or if it was worse to have made it which Aziraphale would know is out of character for him. That was the problem with being in love with someone that you'd known for the whole of human history. They knew each other all too well; any and all weirdness tonight would be noted and accounted for.

Would Aziraphale be concerned that Crowley had been too presumptive if he were to find a presentation-worthy bed (what about rose petals, should he lay down rose petals?). The angel would know immediately that he’d made the room up just in case they ended up doing, well, _something_ there and wasn't that just mortifying? His decorative heart was beating a frantic pace in his chest and he found himself laying across the made bed, paralyzed with indecision, for so long that it ended up in a half-made-half-messy compromise that Crowley ended up rather liking the look and feel of.

Next came picking out his clothing for the evening, and wasn't that just another exercise in ambiguity?

Generally speaking, he just miracled an outfit for himself on each day that fit his mood and the general style of the times. Buying clothing the human way was a gigantic exercise in futility (he should know, he’d had a hand in the creation of standard sizing), and he already knew roughly how he wanted to look. If he made sure that the trousers (or skirt if he was feeling it that day) were just tight enough to draw attention, just in case any particular angels assigned to the planet Earth may take a gander, that was neither here nor there.

But tonight, oh _tonight_ , he wanted to impress. In fact, he'd been told to in so many words. They were going on a _date_. A real, honest-to-goodness _date_. Aziraphale had acknowledged this fragile, tentative thing between them and, for once, he’d made the move. He _wanted_ Crowley too and wasn’t that just a kick right in the arse. While he knew that the angel’s eyes would sometimes catch on his hips or his chest, he wanted this evening’s look to really exceed expectations. He wanted his angel proud to present him as his _date._

His human body was rife with nervous energy, and had been for roughly 29 hours at this point, but that nervousness was quickly moving more into the territory of excitement. Aziraphale was not one to take things lightly. If he was finally ready to act on this, finally ready for them to be _more,_ he was doing so knowing the good, the bad, and the ugly of Crowley’s personality and quirks. The angel had assessed him as a partner and, against all odds, not found him wanting. They’ve waited so long for this and now, he thinks they might just be able to have it. Perhaps they were finally moving at the same speed, the _right_ speed. The thought fills him with something dangerously akin to unstoppable, indefatigable, _love_.

While floating in a haze of what he definitely refuses to call _adoration_ , he recalls that, back during the 1790's (the Reign of Terror if he's to be exact - he remembers a frill-clad angel in satin pumps and nearly has to fight his Pavlovian response to _that_ particular fantasy), he’d had a brief flirtation with a red coat. When he’d rescued the angel from an inconvenient discorporation in the Bastille, he recalls the angel’s eyes lingering on the deep brick red garment as it clung to the demon’s shoulders and waist. Later, over a plate of sinfully good crepes, the angel had commented that the color complemented his hair and complexion.

He smirked, _yes_ , this would be good. He thought hard about the look he wanted, and the suit materialized on his form. He took a look at himself in the mirror and nodded his approval. Two could play at this seduction game, and he had it on good authority that he really was _quite_ the tempter.

\---

He should’ve known, honestly. Aziraphale has been surprising him and showing him up since day bloody one and why would tonight be any different? He’d slithered up the Eastern wall thinking he’d have a bit of a laugh riling up an angel before reporting back to Hell and Aziraphale had clobbered him with _“I gave it away!”_ and he’s been upending Crowley’s world schema on the regular since.

When he arrives at the bookshop (surprisingly early), having stopped for flowers (which took quite a bit longer than expected because florists really don’t know how to get the best out of their blooms), Aziraphale calls him inside, only for him to find a conspicuous lack of angel in the back room where he assumed Aziraphale would be.

Nevertheless, he walks in, ready to lay his best grin out on the angel see where it gets him (and maybe steal a pre-dinner kiss, because he’s _dying_ to kiss Aziraphale and has been for roughly 4,000 years and maybe that would settle the blasted butterflies in his stomach, or at least give them something to focus on) but a brief trip around the perimeter of the shop does not reveal the angel either. He follows the ambient noise to the staircase leading up to Aziraphale’s flat and slowly heads up. It should be noted that Crowley is a big, bad, scary demon and not a fainting 17th century heroine. That being said, he would beg consideration that anyone might understandably be brought to their knees by the sight before him when he gets to the angel’s bedroom.

There, assessing himself in full length mirror, is Aziraphale wearing the most modern clothes Crowley has seen him in since 1941.

Gone is the age-worn waist coat and palette of beige. In its wake, is a slim tailored, charcoal grey suit, the trousers of run a much slimmer cut than the angel typically wears, which serves to accentuate his delightfully thick thighs and highlight his perfectly round arse and drive what's left of Crowley's sanity right back into the hole it crawled out of.

The jacket is close tailored as well, double breasted and drawing attention to strong shoulders and arms, usually hidden under less revealing cuts and a multitude of layers, coming in at the waist and framing a perfectly light blue shirt that makes Aziraphale’s eyes glow even in the dim light of the bedroom. His hair isn’t so different from usual, but has clearly been worked into a more finished style, slightly eased over and lightly curled as it's wont to be. He’s fussing with a grey, blue, and burgundy tartan bow tie, because of course he is, and anxiously pulling at his jacket. Crowley can see the outline of suspenders under the coat, because it wouldn’t be his angel if it was just a little old-fashioned (and _fuck,_ but Crowley wouldn't want him any other way).

Suddenly, his mouth is very dry and his already very tight trousers are possibly going to be a bit too restricting if he doesn’t stop staring at the angel _right now._

The universe is so rarely on Crowley's side that it's no surprise when Aziraphale turns to him, quite before he's had a chance to talk his face into looking less openly interested, with a shocked look and a blush high on his cheeks that somehow only serves to make him look _more_ irresistible. _God preserve me_ , he thinks hysterically.

Crowley clears his throat, “Fucking Heaven, angel. You look incredible.” His voice is low gravelly, and laced with both significant feeling and a not-insignificant undercurrent of desire that he can’t quite pull back. On second thought, he isn’t sure he wants to. They don’t have to do that anymore, that's what this is about. He can look that way at Aziraphale; damn the consequences and his own fear of vulnerability.

“My dear, it’s nothing next to you. You’re exquisite. You always are but, _Crowley,_ dearest, you have outdone yourself.” He’s stepping towards Crowley now, and the demon remembers that he has hands and that one of them is holding a bouquet that he spent 20 minutes choosing and 19 minutes berating, and dumbly shoves the it towards the angel sans explanation or grace.

Luckily, Aziraphale is looking at him like he just might want to _lick Crowley's clothes off_ (which, really, who needs food? Definitely not demons, please, on with the licking), so he thinks all may be forgiven bouquet-presentation-wise.

Aziraphale seems taken aback only for a second, before blushing even deeper. “How _lovely_ , my dear, and how thoughtful. _Thank you_.” It's not "Should I thank you?" or, "I supposed I shouldn't say thank you." It's just _thank you._ He says it looking into Crowley’s eyes through the shaded glass and the demon swallows thickly. When Aziraphale takes the flowers, he lets his hand linger against Crowley’s and the demon chances a gentle drag of his ring finger against Aziraphale’s. The angel’s breath catches, Crowley's to match, and his pulse is jumping in his throat. They've held hands many times by this point, but the purposeful nature of the gesture goes a long way to highlight the nature of the evening.

Crowley reassesses the idea for a pre-date kiss. If he leaned in now, he's certain that he wouldn't be rebuffed. The angel's eyes are shining and he's _so close_. If he leaned in now, the angel would enthusiastically accept Crowley's offer of a kiss. But, if he starts now, he _will not_ be stopping and, well, they deserve this night in full. For some reason it seems monumentally important that they follow this silly human custom through.

With a last intentional brush of his fingers, this time over the sensitive inside of the angel's wrist, Crowley murmurs, “Shall we, angel?”, and Aziraphale gives himself a brief shake to remember that, _yes_ , they were to be doing something other than goggling at each other.

“Of course, my dear, just let me put these in some water. They’re so lovely, I wouldn’t want them to suffer.” The angel bustles quickly to his small kitchen, placing the flowers in an old vase, setting them on his small dining room table, and giving Crowley just a _fantastic,_ view of his arse.

“Alright, let’s get a wiggle on", the angel says, clearly regretting the choice of words as soon as they’ve left his mouth. Whether it’s due to the memory of a dark pub and Crowley's tear-lined eyes or Crowley’s continued mockery of the phrase, he’s unsure. Regardless Crowley’s heart expands again because it's just so quintessentially Aziraphale; still his best friend who is perpetually stuck in the past and uses turns of phrase like “wiggle on” right before a date and his _loves_ him. So very much.

"Yeah, let's. Lead on, angel." the demon replies. He knows that his expression is besotted and, just this once, he can't seem to manage even a token protest against it.

Aziraphale indulges him in a warm smile, gently cups the side of his face ( _good lord_ ), then grabs his arm, leading him downstairs and onto the street. While he still has butterflies, they're all the good kind and they're all, unsurprisingly, completely focused on the warmth of Aziraphale's arm settled in the crook of his own.

\---

They arrive at a small, lovely French restaurant that, as advertised, Crowley hasn't been to before. The walls are adorned with expensive looking art, decor done up in warm Earth tones, and there's someone playing the piano in the far left corner (tinkering out a regrettable version of Journey's "Faithfully"). Crowley appreciates that the place isn't too crowded, despite it being a Friday evening. There are several tables for two scattered about, lined with with crisp ivory table cloths, customary candles and, surprisingly, a ballroom floor right in the middle. It's early in the evening, he supposes, so it's not getting much use right now, but Crowley can tell that after the patrons consume a few fortifying glasses of wine, there will be soppy humans clinging to one another and moving out of time with awful piano renditions of 1980's power ballads. It's _awful_. He kind of loves it.

In short order they're seated and before he has a chance to open the menu, Aziraphale closes his hand over Crowley's gently, and nervously tugs on the menu. The demon lifts his head to look at his companion and sees that another rather fetching blush is back to painting is porcelain cheeks.

"Ah, I wondered, was wondering, that is-", the angel lets out a breath and collects himself. "I wondered if you might allow me? You're always ordering for us and sweeping me off to the loveliest of places. I thought I might return the favor."

It's Crowley's turn to go against his nature and sport a blush, and he can't quite stop his stomach from flipping over just how _bloody romantic_ it all is. The lighting is soft and lovely, and Aziraphale is soft and lovely. His angel wants to _treat_ him, _take care_ of him. It's all quite a lot, but he'll be twice-damned before he gives it up. Against his better judgement, a smile starts to break out, unnatural as it feels. Not his trademark smirk, but a real, honest-to-goodness smile. _Wonderful, horrible, bastard, beloved angel._

"Sure, angel. I trust you." It's said quietly, murmured intimately so that only Aziraphale can hear. Soft, too, like things lovers say, and the smile it earns in return from the angel is worth another 6,000 years of enduring Aziraphale's fussiest and most self-righteous tantrums. This is it, there's really nothing he wants more than _exactly_ this in the whole of the universe. He saved the bloody world thinking this would never be a part of it, but here he is. He's ecstatic, really, and it's becoming more difficult to keep that under wraps. There's something long forgotten bubbling in his chest. He has a faint memory of the feeling but can't quite place it; and if he seems at all reticent, it's just that he's spent an awfully long time assured that he'd never get to have this. That he'd spend the rest of his immortal life in a beautiful, tortuous limbo. Beautiful in that he gets to spend it with his best friend, tortuous in that he never imagined that Aziraphale would see him as more.

Now that it's being handed to him on such a lovely platter, gleaming silver and endless, he's just a little overwhelmed. There's apart of him that wants to cut and run (slither really; _you'll crawl on your belly and eat dust all the days of your life_ \- _that's_ what he was told, what he expected out of eternity) in self-preservation, because this way lies the angel seeing him bleed his broken, twisted heart and his Hell-tainted devotion all over him leaving a stain that he can't wish away with a purse of his lips. It won't be possible to hide how in love he is once he starts. Fortunately, Aziraphale took the first step and it feels, if not easy, at least exciting to actually look him in the eye and take the obvious affection he sees radiated back at him. There's another feeling, something that feels like it's tickling his outer senses that he's ignoring in favor of looking into seaglass eyes while this ridiculous creature he's spent his life with take him out like a real gentleman would. Like it's something that Crowley deserves, this love and consideration.

When the waiter comes to take their orders, Aziraphale surprises him again by ordering without looking at the wine listing. It turns out to be a particular favorite of Crowley's; a Rioja that they'd had together once in Argentina and Crowley had regretted not finding more of when he could no longer find the vintage. Crowley is also certain that it'd be quite impossible for the restaurant to have it in stock, but the sommelier finds himself a bit surprised to be in possession of the exact bottle the angel requested. Before he can comment, Aziraphale takes it a step further and orders a smattering of small plates that all seem designed to fit into Crowley's limited tastes. He's never been as much for food as the angel is, but there have been a few things throughout their storied past that have caught his palette.

The entire order is to Crowley's tastes and the implication that Aziraphale has been watching and hoarding information about Crowley for as long as Crowley's been doing the same breaks his heart open irreparably, and in the best kind of way. Is it possible that this affection Aziraphale feels isn't new? That it isn't something he's allowed himself to feel since the world didn't end and they won their safety fair and square? How strange it is to look at his best friend of 6,000 and see something of a mirror. As it is, he's struggling to keep his breathing even and can sense the moment that the angel senses a change in the atmosphere. Aziraphale breathes in sharply, his hand covering his chest and his discerning eyes moving abruptly away from the ballroom floor to lock unerringly on Crowley's behind his sunglasses.

"Oh _Crowley_. That's you isn't it? I can feel you, I think. My dear, how have you held this back?" The angel is damn near glowing, and if they don't get a handle on this soon they're going to have to either leave or, or, _something._ Maybe Crowley will discorporate on the spot from received affection or embarrassment or several millennia of low banked arousal and he won't have to respond to the hanging question. Maybe Lord Beezlebub will show up in the restaurant and grant Crowley a public pardon. _Unlikely , _the traitorous snake in his head hisses at him.

Quite without his input, time seems to stand still; a hundred frozen conversations around them and in the middle of the storm, an angel and a demon with souls laid bare.

"Alright, _alright._ Tell the whole restaurant why don't you." He grumbles, still not entirely managing a menacing tone and still, to his horror, sporting a small, lovesick smile. _Some demon I turned out to be._

The linear flow of time restarts, whether it'd been demonically influenced or not, Crowley couldn't say. He's too busy tying to fight his nature to question _bloody everything;_ as if that impulse hadn't gotten him into enough trouble already. He wants to ignore it, really. They don't have a long history of actually talking about things, and in the past when he's tried it hasn't gone well (watching Aziraphale stalk off, a burning note in the pond, a somber, " _You go too fast for me, Crowley"_ echoing in his memory). But this is something _new_ , isn't it? Aziraphale made his intentions clear; that's invitation enough for him to ask for clarification, right? Maybe they'll do this next half with open communication.

He tries to fight the impulse a bit longer, but the silence is dragging on and he knows Aziraphale is waiting for him and, unsurprisingly, he _needs_ to know. He's always needed to _know._ When he speaks again, it's much quieter and terribly more sincere than he'd ever allow under normal circumstances, "Does it- Is it-, does it feel okay? Like, good and not, ngk, bad?" _Well done_ , he tells himself, _some silver-tongued serpent you are_. 

" _Darling_ ," Aziraphale's hand captures his across the table, soft and warm and like it belongs there (it does, it does, _it does_ ), "it feels perfect. You couldn't be more perfect."

Crowley's throat lets out a small sob he didn't know he was holding back. _Darling_. He's never been _darling_ before.

"S'good. I mean, I'm glad. That you like it, that it's, erm, good." _Darling._ Words never were really his forte and he can't be expected to string two words together when the angel is calling him _darling_.

Thank _someone_ that the waiter returns to pour their wine (such a perfect vintage, such a perfect companion) before Crowley starts doing something so ridiculous as sobbing in relief. Now he gets to just goggle at the love of his life across the table and he has had centuries and centuries of experience doing that.

Crowley's more comfortable now that this thing between them has been openly acknowledged. He finds it easier to look into Aziraphale's eyes as he talks about his books, and his customers (the couple regulars he actually lends books to), and the new bakery that opened up a few blocks from the shop. There isn't much new to cover considering that they've barely spent a day or two apart in the past few weeks, but he loves listening to the angel talk and has for most of human history, so he lets himself enjoy it. They chat amiably through the first few plates, all delicious (all to Crowley's tastes), and take their time; after all, they have it now, _time_.

One bottle turns into two, as if often does when they're together, and before they know it the lights have begun to dim and couples are moving out onto the dance floor, swaying together and pressing one another close. He turns his head from where he was watching two lovely women, similar in age to how he and Aziraphale present their corporations, hold each other and move along to the beat of an awful version of "Still Loving You" when he catches a wistful look on the angel's face. Blink and you'd miss it; it's gone as soon as Aziraphale realizes he's being observed. While he may be flighty and emotionally repressed, he _knows_ Aziraphale and he _knows_ that look. It's the same one the angel gets during Christmastime when he looks at carolers, or when there's a new first edition available that Aziraphale's shop (really just Aziraphale, actually) just absolutely _needs_ , or, as Crowley is now realizing, how Aziraphale sometimes looks at him when he's slouched, three-sheets-to-the-wind on the sofa in the back of the bookshop.

All night Aziraphale has been surprising Crowley and upping the ante, and while this isn't a competition, he wants to meet Aziraphale's brand of affection with his own. He wants to give something back and this, oh _this,_ gives him an opportunity. Considering that, on even the best days, Crowley's anxiety can render him indecisive, it's best that he doesn't let his brain catch up with his body. He's always preferred action anyway. 

Aziraphale's eyes go comically wide, and says "Crowley, are you-", but he's interrupted as the demon rounds the table, offering his hand.

"Can I trouble you for a dance?" He pitches his voice low, lets a bit of gravel and velvet enter it, and allows Aziraphale to see a sliver of his eyes above his dark glasses.

Aziraphale's eyes dilate and that lovely blush is right back where it should be, and Crowley feels like Casanova, like he could move mountains (forgetting, temporarily that he actually _could_ ).

The angel stammers out, "Oh, dearest, I don't really know how-, I only learned the gavotte and this certainly isn't the right time signature and it was so long ago, you know, and the truth is that I was never that adept at it anyway. I wouldn't want to crush your feet or-"

Crowley cuts him off by leaning slightly closer to the angel, seeking a well manicured hand with his own, and tugging lightly until Aziraphale stands, quite a bit closer to him than usual.

"It's no matter angel, I can teach you." He gives Aziraphale's hand a reassuring squeeze and receives one in response. It's permission. It's acceptance. It's yet another layer of acknowledgement, and Crowley's heart is soaring.

He leads Aziraphale to an unoccupied corner of the dance floor and guides his hand to rest on his shoulder, placing his other hand at the angels waist, pulling him close, and keeping their free hands clasped together. He wants them to be close; no need for distance anymore

The pianist starts turning out surprisingly acceptable version of an Eric Clapton song Crowley can't remember the name of but seems entirely appropriate for the occasion. This isn't about steps, really, it's about closeness, he finds. He can feel Aziraphale pressed against him, the heat of his hand on his shoulder, the heat radiating through the soft fabric at the angel's waist, the soft warmth of their hands clasped together. They've only been this close tangled in bed napping (and Crowley regrets being unable to catalog those sensations due to something so frivolous as _sleep_ ), but this purposeful closeness is lighting off sparks on Crowley's skin everywhere they touch. It seems backwards, in a way, but for them so very natural.

_I said yes, you look wonderful tonight_. His mind supplies the lyrics as the pianist continues and isn't that the truth. Aziraphale looks gorgeous; all soft curves and strong shoulders and he smells divine (hah!). 

As much as he wants to bury his face into the crook of the angel's neck and breathe him in, he finds that he wants to look at him too. He wants to see the love in those eyes. He wants to see the affect he's having. He ends up midway between the two, with his temple pressed lightly to Aziraphale's, soft white blond curls tickling at this nose. It's _perfect_ and he just feels so lucky. So warm. So, something he doesn't dare give a title to.

He's trying to decide if now would be a good time for significant eye contact when the decision is made for him. The angel breathes in, dislodges his hand from Crowley's and drags it up his arm to rest on the side of his face. And _oh_ , there are more sparks. Finally looking at the angel, he feels every remnant doubt, every last vestige of millennia of pining, evaporate. He's seen that look, he knows it like he knows the back of his own hand, like he knows the path from Mayfair to Soho, like he knows the the lines of the Bentley. His own love and longing is staring him right in the face, beaming at him. 

He had wondered, briefly, if the angel's love translated into the physical. It wouldn't be a requirement, of course. He's lived without it this long and he'd never compromise receiving that kind of love for something as fleeting as physical intimacy, but he can't say that he hasn't thought of it. Can't say that the idea of having Aziraphale under his hands doesn't set his heart off. He can't pretend that he hasn't spent too many nights with his hand wrapped around himself wondering what it'd be like if it was the angel's.

Crowley may not be able to sense love the way Aziraphale can, but there are things he _can_ sense and there's no denying the look in his eyes.

"I love you." It's not blurted out, but whispered with intent and he doesn't want to take it back. He says it as a statement because it is; it's as undeniable as any fact of the universe. The sky is blue (most of the time, anyway), Capitalism is a demonic invention, vaccinating your kids is important, the demon Crowley irrevocably loves the angel Aziraphale.

" _Darling_ , I love you too. Every time I believe I've reached the peak of my love for you, I see you again and I love you more for it." And as luck would have it, the angel Aziraphale loves the demon Crowley. How's that for a lark?

Aziraphale's thumb is chasing the blush blooming heated on his cheekbone, running just beneath the lens of his glasses, and the fission between them is taking on a new flavor entirely. He may not be able to feel love, but he's quite familiar with lust, with the taste of _wanting_. Normally, he kind of blocks it out. Humans are quite taken with lust, so he generally tunes it out so he doesn't spend the entirety of his days inundated, but now? Well, there isn't any way that he could mistake the waves of it coming off of Aziraphale. And how welcome it is. 

It turns out that the angel loves him. It also turns out that the angel _wants_ him. How very, very lucky for him. Luckiest bastard in the universe, he is.

He pulls the angel closer to him, allowing the hand on his waist to move to the small of his back, angling his head so that he can nose along the soft hairs behind the angel's ear. Aziraphale might be a bastard, but Crowley has his moments too. He lets out a breath along the angel's neck and feels the minute shiver that runs along that beloved angelic frame. He lets his lips lightly graze the shell of a holy ear, breathes in the scent of clove, parchment, petrichor, and ozone that is so distinctly Aziraphale.

The angel's hand tightens on his shoulder and moves to the back of his neck, running a finger along the base of it and sending an answering shiver through Crowley. Oh, how he _wants._ And this time, there's no trace of guilt, no shame, just the knowledge that he isn't in this alone anymore. He wants and is wanted and these actions are welcome. 

His hands want to map every delicious curve of Aziraphale's body. He wants to bite at those damnable thighs and his lovely belly. He wants to show the angel just what his serpent tongue can accomplish when truly, properly _motivated_. He wants to make the angel _scream_ his name. 

The song ends, and they spend a few scant moments just staring at each other, taking in the moment and letting it settle into the very fabric of them; letting it gently layer on top of the well worn lines of friendship. Tacitly allowing the feedback loop of love and desire reciprocated to pass between them unimpeded. The angel breaks first, smirking in an _extremely_ unangelic way that sends a pulse of heat between the demon's legs, and leading them back to the table.

\---

Crowley doesn't have much to say about the rest of the meal because he does no tasting and very little actual speaking. When you've known each other for as long as they have, words aren't always needed. They can indulge in allowing the heated looks to be observed for once, letting each one feed the other's want in due turn. They allow their feet to touch under the table, Crowley eventually hooking his ankle around Aziraphale's and delighting in watching the angel's hand tighten on his fork for his trouble.

Aziraphale is, well, there really isn't another way to say it, essentially undressing Crowley with his eyes, allowing Crowley to watch him drag his eyes along every angle of his body, lingering at his exposed throat. As if by miracle, the waiter appears at the side of the table and Crowley, on autopilot (and out of an abundance of haste) goes to provide his black credit card, when Aziraphale stops him.

"No darling, tonight is about _you_." He says simply, then pays the check and takes Crowley's hand to lead him from the restaurant. Crowley is all to eager to follow.

_Darling_ is still echoing in his head on delightful loop.

\---

It was a lovely night and the restaurant was not far from the bookshop so they'd walked. Aziraphale seems to be a bit irritated with his past self for not thinking this far ahead if the pinched look he has on his face not finding the Bentley obligingly outside is anything to go by. Crowley reads the urgency underpinning Aziraphale's scanning, and with a snap of his fingers a cab pulls up beside them, then he's holding the door for Aziraphale to get in and sliding in after him.

They're sitting so closely, legs pressed together and the heat is unimaginable. Crowley desperately wants to feel skin. He wants no more barriers between them. No higher powers to worry about, no shred of self-consciousness to be found. He wants to show Aziraphale how loved he is and he wants to receive the full force of that love in return. He felt it earlier, this bastard angel built for love and doing something as daring as stockpiling love for a demon behind an impenetrable wall of self-doubt. He's going to give him _everything_.

While Crowley is lost in his own head, a hand lands on his knee, initially seeming to be an attempt to maintain connection; _I'm here_ , it's meant to say, _not long now._ But Crowley's wound up and he can't help the way his muscle jumps under the angel's warm hand, he wants to feel more. Much to his slack-jawed shock, that hand slowly starts to move higher on his leg, the lightest possible stroke, but it's enough to wrench a small desperate sound from him. He doesn't think he's ever wanted anything as much as he's wanted this. Except perhaps for this cab to _drive fucking faster_ , so that he can do more than twitch pathetically and try to stop himself from grabbing that hand and shoving it down his trousers himself.

As if reading his mind, the pressure of that hand increases and drags higher on his leg, now sitting in terrain absolutely no one would call proper, a hairs breadth from the juncture of thigh and groin. Slightly to the left and Aziraphale would be feeling the effect his attentions are having on Crowley's body. In a moment of panic (they are still technically in public, and he's far too worked up to divert human attention) his hand darts out to cover Aziraphale's, pinning it in place. His breathing is a mess and there are tiny juttering shivers running through his whole body and he's radiating love and something heavier, thicker, that promises a truly excellent end to the evening. Aziraphale doesn't move his hand any higher, but presses down, allowing his fingers to graze along the inner seam of Crowley's trousers and Crowley's has to out and out bite his lower lip to stay quiet.

With a borderline manic a snap of his fingers, they find themselves in front of his building in Mayfair quite rapidly. Aziraphale pays the driver quite a bit more than the fare was worth and, before Crowley knows it, he's being dragged out of the car rather forcefully and, _oh_ is he here for it.

Aziraphale presses the button for the elevator and, miraculously, it opens immediately, already set to the penthouse floor. No sooner do the doors close and Crowley is helpless but to advance on him, backing him against the far corner. A small sound, pure need, tumbles out of the angel's mouth and Crowley is _blind_ with desire now. He supposes that this should be more romantic, to follow the mood of the evening, but he's at the end of several lifetimes worth of a tether and has fuck-all of an intention to go back.

" _You_ ", he starts, "I can't _believe_ you. Mister prim, proper, fussy angel, playing footsie with me under the table, shamelessly eye-fucking me in public, and very nearly groping me in a cab. Bloody _filthy_ angel. _Fuck_ , I want you so bad, I've never wanted anything as bad as I want you." Pressed together as they are, it's mostly spoken with barely a breath between their lips, and he can feel Aziraphale's panting breaths as his lungs expand pushing his chest against Crowley's more firmly and the puffs of air ghosting across his cheek. He still isn't kissing him, which Aziraphale seems to take issue with if the way he tilts his head up and huffs is anything to go by, but they're _so close_. He can see the pulse jumping in Aziraphale's throat and Crowley can _taste_ the undercurrent of want flavoring Aziraphale's breath, and they're just letting themselves soak up the desire in the moment. The tantalizing reality of an event horizon, the calm before a quenching storm. The palpable _tension_ of it.

Aziraphale is angling his face up and Crowley is leaning down, letting his hand brush the angel's cheek and settle on the side of his neck, and the blasted elevator dings and the doors open and Crowley is _done_ waiting (although he makes a note to have a serious talk with that elevator about the importance of timing _later_ ). He pulls Aziraphale by the hand a bit rougher than he ever would have before, miracles the door open, pulls the angel in, slams the door behind him and has him backed up against it in the span of a minute. Both are breathing heavily, letting themselves feel what it's like to be bodily pressed together in a way they'd never expected they'd actually get to experience. How strange it is to get what you want.

Aziraphale reaches up slowly and takes the arms of Crowley's sunglasses in hand before easing them off. _"Beautiful"_ , he breathes and Crowley is drowning. There's no preamble, after that. Aziraphale miracles the glasses somewhere in the general direction of _gone_ and whispers simply, "Darling, I _want_ you." And their lips are pressed together and it's _fantastic._ It's the peak of every fantasy he's ever had and even better for being real.

Aziraphale's lips are as petal soft as he always thought they would be. He tastes like excellent champagne, and, more importantly, like desire and Crowley is unabashedly groaning into his mouth when their tongues meet. He has his hands gripping angel's face as gently as he can in the face of his passion, letting them move back into those cloudlight curls and he could sob for how perfect the whole thing is. He's been disappointed so many times, by his creator, by the cruel nature of humans despite the option and ability to be kind, by his own misplaced optimism, but there's nothing remotely like disappointment here. Aziraphale is everything he's ever wanted, and to be wanted _back_? It's everything he never thought he'd have.

The world goes topsy turvy for a moment and Crowley finds their positions reversed, Aziraphale's coat gone, and Crowley's being pushed down his arms decisively. He lets it drop to the floor without a thought. _Fuck_. He frequently forgets how strong the angel is; that the soft hands so prone to wringing in anxiety were rough-hewn by the almighty Herself to fight and protect. He finds his entire body bowing to press more of himself against the angel. He wants to be done waiting and wants to get started feeling.

It seems that Aziraphale is also done waiting, because after a moment of delirious snogging, he's rolling his hips into Crowley's and, _fucking hell_ , the angel is hard against him. He knows that Aziraphale can feel his own hardness too, and before he knows it there are hands on his hips pulling him infinitesimally closer, a thigh between his legs urging him to grind against it, and a heavenly hand pulling one of his legs onto the angels hip. There isn't a millimetre of space between them now, only their clothing preventing them from feeling skin and, oh, _fucking fuck_ this is going to be good.

"Crowley, darling," Aziraphale groans into the small space between their lips, "I can't get close enough." It echoes Crowley's feelings precisely, although he's not entirely sure that there's such a thing as close enough. The angel groans against his mouth, one hand tracing the snake tattoo on the side of his face, the other quite unashamedly groping his arse to bring them as close together as possible. "I don't think I'll ever be able to get close enough." There's a whine in his voice and Crowley understands. He's desperate to feel that soft skin against his own. To map that entire body with his mouth.

" _Fuck_ , yeah angel. Bedroom? Let's -", the angel bites at his neck and he makes a sound that a certainly not a wanton moan. Definitely not. " _God_ , yeah, okay. Bedroom. _Now_." He tries to disentangle himself, but Aziraphale has other plans. With a growl he picks Crowley up, the demon letting out a somewhat undignified squeak at being manhandled, and urges him to wrap his long legs around his waist. With him safely secured in the angel's arms, Aziraphale carries him to the bedroom, only briefly breaking their kiss to lay Crowley down on the half-made bed and crawl over him a moment later.

"Oh fuck, angel, that was _hot_. You're just full of surprises aren't you? I bet you could throw me around." He's not even filtering what's coming out of his mouth anymore. All he knows is that he wants Aziraphale to show more of that strength, to bracket him with soft warmth and hidden strength, to kiss him, and move him, and _fuck him_ until he doesn't know where he stops and the angel starts. "Please Aziraphale, angel, _I want you_ , please-", he doesn't care that he's begging. Except that Aziraphale makes a broken sound and looks like he might just give Crowley whatever he wants if he keeps speaking filthy nonsense into the deep black of his bedroom (maybe it could be _their_ bedroom-a thought for another time).

"Oh, _darling_ , don't you worry", the look on Aziraphale's face indicates that he had _not_ missed the effect that word has on Crowley, "I'm going to give you _everything._ "

With that, the angel refocuses his energy on Crowley's neck (just moving along as if he isn't masterfully disrupting the delicate balance of Crowley's ability to appear cool under pressure), first allowing his fingers to slowly map the tendon along the side, then following the heated path with his lips, his tongue, and thank _someone_ , his teeth. It draws a groan from him; his hands wrapping around Aziraphale and pulling him flush against Crowley's body, a development that the angel seems _very_ enthusiastic about if his answering moan and sharp bite to Crowley's jaw is anything to go by.

He's dizzy with want and needs Aziraphale naked, right then. He can't decide where to start. One hand travels to the small of Aziraphale's back to scrabble his shirt from his trousers and the other is trying to work at the blasted bow tie to get at his neck and neither end up really achieving anything. He whines at his poorly timed lack of fine motor control.

With a deep, amused huff Aziraphale does exactly the _opposite_ of what Crowley was trying for and sits up, leaning back between Crowley's splayed thighs (well, as far apart as they can be considering how tight his trousers are), and, with one hand, pulls the knot from his bow tie, undoes it, and pulls to leave it hanging loose from his collar. And that should not do what it does for Crowley, but oh, does it _ever._

"Mmm, fuck angel." he groans out again, raising his hips to try to get some friction. "I don't want to wait anymore, can we move this along?" If he sounds petulant and put out, it's only because he's harder than he's ever been in his life, and he can feel that Aziraphale is hard too, and more than anything he wants to see the proof for himself, he wants Aziraphale to see the proof too.

Aziraphale pulls in a stuttering breath and looks appraisingly down at Crowley's prone form. "When I had imagined this," he drags the backs of his knuckles down Crowley's jawline and over his throat in such a gently possessive gesture that Crowley doesn't know whether to cry or perhaps come in his trousers like a human teenager, "I'd always thought I would want to take my time with you, and I do, darling, but I think, perhaps, now is not the time for dithering. I want you too."

On the thought, he starts to undo each of Crowley's shirt buttons and pressing open mouth kisses along the newly exposed skin. It's not slow, but it isn't vanishing their clothes into the ether or a pocket universe or Maui either, which is slightly frustrating. The demon is about to voice his urgency when those pink, kiss-swollen lips wrap around his nipple and suck, and then _bite_ , and Crowley is panting and moaning out into the room. He fists his hands in Aziraphale's hair to keep him right the fuck where he is, _thankyouverymuch_ , while he grinds up against the angel's answering hardness.

It seems that Aziraphale is getting off on Crowley getting off, and blesses him with a filthy grind of his hips, moving into a rhythmic roll and Crowley ought to just stop breathing all together for how little air he's actually taking into his lungs.

"Oh, ohohoh, angel, I, _fuck_ , if you don't stop that I'll come before you're in me." It's a miracle that any of it was spoken in actual language, but he does realize belatedly that they had not yet discussed the shape in which this intimacy would take and he hopes against hope that Aziraphale is amenable, because if the angel doesn't fuck him soon he's going to lose his damned (hah!) mind.

"Oh my dear, I was _so_ hoping you would say that." Aziraphale spreads Crowley's shirt, sits up and pulls the demon along with him so that he can rid him of the garment entirely. "Darling," he looks into Crowley's eyes, righteous desire burning hot and golden right into him, "would you terribly mind a miracle?"

Quite beyond words for the moment (they've been stolen from his throat by the stunning, ethereal creature taking him apart) he just nods frantically, about to snap their clothes away himself before he feels a ripple of divine energy and then, _oh_ , skin. So much warm soft skin, right there for him to touch and feel. All for him.

" _God_ ", he gasps out, "I can't-, Aziraphale please, I'll do anything, just _please touch me._ "

The angel leans down and drags his lips against Crowley's. They're so sensitive, lips are, and the gesture is enchantingly sweet, and he wants this forever. For all of his days.

"Yes, darling. I'd like nothing more." And then Aziraphale's hand is dragging along the length of him and he cries out, desperate and pathetic, and he's already leaking; dripping his arousal onto his own stomach and, _dear sweet fuck_ , onto Aziraphale's own cock. 

"Oh, look at you, so beautiful Crowley. You're so, so beautiful for me. So hard, and wet, what a compliment." The angel brings a shining hand up to his mouth and runs that sweet pink tongue over his fingers, tasting what Crowley's made for him and driving every single thought from the demon's mind that isn't "Fuck" and "Please", and most importantly, " _Fuck me"_.

With another frivolous miracle, Aziraphale's fingers are slick and traveling back over his balls and behind, to circle around him and he's slowly pushing one in and Crowley is lost to it. Vaguely he knows that he's consistently groaning out his pleasure to the room and grinding his hips alternatively onto Aziraphale's finger and up into his hip, but fuck it, he wants this too bad to stop and it feels too good not to indulge in.

"Anoth-, ah, angel, another please", and Aziraphale obliges, adding a second, and then shortly a third, fucking Crowley in earnest on his fingers. He slows it down a bit, indulging himself in Crowley's noises, so freely given and so enthusiastically received. Caught somewhere between the edge and frustration, Crowley is veritably shaking, his entire body straining for something he can't quite reach.

"Someday, not tonight, or at least not right now, I'm going to take you apart just like this." At the word he pushes all three fingers in as deep as they'll go, curls them, and rubs softly right over Crowley's prostate and he _howls_. "In all my years I have never seen something so gorgeous as you laid out beneath me. Are you ready, my dear?", it's whispered softly into Crowley's temple, the angel having leaned over to press frantic kisses against his hairline.

" _Yesss,_ " the hiss regrettably making an appearance, but how can he be expected to control himself when he has the unparalleled best of the holy host three fingers deep in him, about to fuck him stupid?

With a final heaved breath, Aziraphale removes his fingers, slicks himself up, and slowly, _so blasted slowly_ , enters Crowley. Up until now, Aziraphale has been somewhat quiet, preferring to focus on Crowley's litany of groans, moans, and cries. It seems that being surrounded by Crowley's own tight heat is enough to falter his iron clad control, because the angel groans low and gravelly, and grabs both of Crowley's hands to pin them to the bed either side of his head.

The demon brings both legs up around Aziraphale's waist to pull him in as deep as he can go, and their groans are in harmony now as they get used to the fucking flawless feeling of being joined this way. And flawless is really the only way to describe it. He hadn't gotten a good look before, as overwhelmed as he was with the angel's attentions, but his cock is hard and hot and _so fucking thick_ inside him and it's everything he wanted. For a moment, they lock eyes, faces only centimetres apart, breathing each other's air before he starts losing his patience and swiveling his hips to get some much-needed friction.

Taking the cue for what it is, Aziraphale starts making small rocking thrusts, barely moving out of Crowley and serving to rub tantalizingly over his prostate and stimulate the sensitive rim of him and there's the panting again.

"Angel, please, _I love you_ , please fuck me-, I need-" and that's evidently all he needed to say for Aziraphale to release his hands, rear back, grab his hips and thrust into him powerfully. Crowley cries out, arching his back, one hand twisting itself in the sheets and the other snatching onto Aziraphale's bicep and squeezing hard enough to draw bruises, should the angel have been human.

He sets a deep, pounding rhythm, making sure to strike the demon's prostate on every other thrust or so which feels _incredible_ , but Crowley wants to touch too, so he uses the hand on Aziraphale's bicep to pull him down, allowing himself to roll his hips up into Aziraphale's thrusts. It has the benefit of making the angel gasp and groan, which makes Crowley feel likes he's flying.

"You feel amazing, darling, the best thing I've ever felt, you perfect, dear creature." The praise is like an electric stroke straight to his cock and he snaps his hips up sharply which makes Aziraphale grab his hip and push them together for a dirty, _fucking filthy_ , grind that almost ends Crowley right then and there.

He must make some kind of desperate noise (honestly, he's mostly just making desperate noises and likely has been for the past 25 minutes, but who's counting?), because Aziraphale rests his forehead against Crowley's and moves one hand between them to grasp at Crowley's definitely still leaking cock, and the demon groans and shoots out a hand to stop Aziraphale's.

"Oh, angel, if you do that I'm done for." It's true. If Aziraphale so much as strokes his cock or touches the sensitive bit right below the frenulum there won't be anything he can do to stop, he's been fighting not to go off like a rocket for some time now.

Everything stops for a brief moment, the angel locks eyes with him, smirks looking both radiant and nothing like an angel at all, before he brushes his lips against Crowley's and, directly against his lips, whispers, " _Good._ "

It's over rather quickly after that. Crowley's eyes go comically wide, no white's visible at all in them, Aziraphale squeezes his cock slightly tighter and strokes up with a twist of his wrist that has Crowley arching up off the mattress beneath him and coming over Aziraphale's hand, his stomach, and a shoot or two reaching his chest (all the way to his _chest? Really?)_ he thinks frantically as he's overcome and crying out in the scant space between their lips.

" _Oh_ , darling, _fuck, fuck, fuck_ ," the angel groans out (and Crowley's scattered brain tries to save a mental file of Aziraphale cursing at the critical moment for review and analysis _later_ ), pushes as deep into Crowley's body as he can go and comes with a low groan and his eyes screwed shut.

They're both trembling lightly and they can't seem to get enough control over their limbs to move, so they mostly just lay there tangled together, whispering words of love and gratitude, and trading small, messy kisses in the tradition of new lovers everywhere.

Some moments later, Aziraphale gently pulls out, snaps to miracle them clean, and pulls the demon close to him. Crowley goes easily, curling himself into the softness of the angel, _his_ angel, and presses light, obsessive kisses to his shoulder and collarbone.

"Angel-" Crowley starts a few moments later, wanting to check in to see if Aziraphale is okay, if he needs anything, but realizes that his breathing has evened out and deepened. He laughs a little, because _of course_ the angel would promptly fall asleep after the best fuck of Crowley's life. _Of course he would, bloody hedonist._ It's even thought with a nauseating amount of affection and Crowley doesn't have the energy to mount any kind of defense against it. He's known for some time that he's a complete sucker when it comes to this angel, but now it's confirmed and likely to be his lot in life from here until eternity.

He miracles a soft blanket to cover them both as not to disturb Aziraphale's slumber. When he goes to turn and tuck the blanket around the angel, a strong arm pulls him decidedly back to his side and his heart melts again. What a thing it is, to be loved, and wanted, and protected.

And if his lot in life is to live for the whims of the kindest, cleverest, biggest bastard of an angel God herself manufactured then, well, that's just fine with him. Dandy even. Tickety-freaking-boo. 

There are worse things, he thinks as he snuggles back into the angel to let sleep claim him, than to learn to love and love alike.


End file.
